


Obsidian and Moonlight

by PenelopeWaits



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ghosts of a sort, Halloweenish, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sacrifice abuse and drugs are not John or Sherlock, canon compliant if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/pseuds/PenelopeWaits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock make a detour on the way home from Baskerville.  The question is, which is more inexplicable, the rites of human violence or the depths of human love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover and Author's Notes

Cover

Like a lot of folks, I felt that the Hound episode in Season 2 strongly indicated a shifting relationship between our boys. This little story explores my thoughts about that. The setting is Dartmoor National Park, where much of the filming for THOB took place. There are archeological sites within the park, but all of the details that follow are strictly the work of my imagination. It’s a bit of a ghost story for the season. 

As is so often the case, RL interfered and put me in competition for the "longest time period between postings award". This story is now finished. I am making grammatical corrections to the previously posted chapters and will be posting the concluding chapters over the next few days as I do edits. Please let me know if you find any errors or indecipherable bits. Many apologies to anyone who started this last year. Thanks for your patience!


	2. A Case of Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe getting home to London isn't such a priority.

John had insisted on a lie in after the excitement of the previous night and then insisted on breakfast.

Sherlock had slept a few hours, but he had been pacing the streets around the inn since nine o’clock. It was nearly eleven now. John had already packed both bags and loaded them in the back of the Land Rover. Sherlock stood in the car park, waiting while John offered his polite farewells to the owners of the Cross Keys, Billy and Greg. No, John had said Lestrade was Greg, oh well, no matter. Wishing once again for a cigarette, Sherlock drummed impatiently on the bonnet until his friend appeared, then dove into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

 

“Seat belt,” said John, without looking, getting in and fastening his own.

 

“Stupid,” responded Sherlock.

 

“Yes, until some American tourist forgets what side of the road is his and we have a head on collision.”

 

“Please, my reflexes are better than that.”

 

“Sherlock, we already had this discussion. I will get out of this vehicle and walk to the Exeter train station and you can manage the baggage if you don’t buckle that seat belt. I can’t keep you from dashing off in the heat of things, but at least try to keep yourself safe when there is no reason not to be safe, and creases in your trousers don’t count as a reason.”

 

“I’d just leave the baggage in the Rover,” muttered Sherlock, buckling the belt one handed as he pulled onto the road leading to A30, heading north. The driving was enough of a distraction at first, navigating narrow village roads, but by the time they were back on the trunk road, Sherlock’s brain was slipping gears again and the vision of Moriarty he had seen in Grimpen Hollow was replaying on an endless loop. He knew what waited in London and he felt his shoulders tensing as he gripped the wheel.

 

“Hey,” said John’s quiet voice, “do you want me to drive?”

 

“You hate driving. You keep looking for IEDs and it makes you jumpy.”

 

“Yeah, well it won’t get any better if I don’t give it a go now and again. You could take a kip.”

 

“Actually, I was wondering if you would be amenable to a short side trip, since we’re unlikely to be back here soon. We could catch a late train.”

 

“Yeah, never been anywhere in Devon, actually, I could look around. What do you have in mind?”

 

“There is a small museum in Belstone, fairly new, that focuses on the archeology of Dartmoor. They have an extensive display on the Iron Age burial mounds.   Many of the deaths were violent, sometimes quite gruesome. Interested?”

 

“Sounds right up our street. Lead the way.”

 

With a new plan in mind, Sherlock began describing what he knew about the Iron Age burials and the culture of that time. He carefully delineated the areas of known fact, of scholarly speculation and of outright fabrication. John relaxed into his pleasant and accustomed role of the devoted if less than adept student as the miles sped by.

 

The museum car park was small and most of the space was reserved for buses. There were a dozen picnic tables and John could imagine school children occupying them, eating sarnies and chattering after their museum excursion. The museum itself was a single story and built on a slab, except for a small white cottage that must have been the original structure. The door to the cottage was marked “Employees Only”, so John and Sherlock made their way to the modern glass and steel entrance. The sign there proclaimed it was the Belstone Museum of Iron Age Studies.

 

An elderly woman sat at a desk near the entrance. “Welcome to the Iron Age Museum. Is this your first visit?”

 

“Yes, it is,” answered John, eager to avoid any unnecessary sniping on Sherlock’s part. “We’re just on our way back to London and thought we’d stop in.”

 

“Lovely! We’re not a large museum but we have some very informative exhibits. There is a video that shows in the theater to your right on the half hour. It gives a nice overview…”

 

“Yes, quite nice for the kiddies, I’m sure,” interrupted Sherlock. “Where are the corpses?”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

“The bodies from the burial mounds, where are they? The website said that there were reconstructions of the burial sites and documentation of the condition of the sites and the remains. We’re particularly interested in the more violent deaths and any speculations you have on mutilations, exsanguinations, drug use...”

 

_In order to set you lot right, of course…_ thought John, with a mental sigh.

 

The petite octogenarian was giving them both a leery, slightly skeptical look, but she responded pleasantly enough, “Oh my, well, most of the bodies are actually in London, of course, they have quite stringent requirements to preserve them once they’ve been exhumed. We have two here, but really; you’ll want to make an appointment with the director to get that detailed information. Let me page her…”

 

The volunteer used her desk phone to page her supervisor while she collected a ten quid fee. She sent them back toward the exhibits, assuring them someone would find them straight away.

 

The first room was a wide hallway. One wall here held a timeline and diorama of how Dartmoor had changed from the beginning of the Holocene to the present. The opposite wall was covered in a large map showing all of the known archeological sites, with keys indicating dwellings, agricultural usage, stream channelization and burial sites. Branching off from this were the other exhibit rooms.

 

They were still studying the map when a docent ( _seventy-one, widowed approximately seven months ago, three grandchildren, one great grandchild, amateur gardener, two cats, at least one calico_ ) appeared. Having already been informed of their interest, he led them to the furthest room on Iron Age burials and proceeded to offer a well rehearsed description of Druidic culture and religious rites beginning in 1200 B.C.E. Sherlock interrupted immediately.

 

“Let’s start with a discussion of similarities and then explore the differences, shall we? I know there was at least one hanging, but most of the bodies were exsanguinated, correct? Was the same type of weapon used in all the incisions? Was torture a component in all the deaths and are you certain all the cuts were pre-mortem?   Are there any features all the bodies have in common?”

 

While Sherlock was cross-examining his subject, a thirty-something woman with chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes appeared, dressed in jeans, an oxford cloth shirt and a Fair Isle jumper. She wore stout hiking boots and stood an inch or two taller than John. “George,” she said, addressing the docent, “did you want some assistance?”

 

John heard the clear sub-text, ( _shall we throw these rude buggers out?)_ and extended his hand with his best ingratiating smile. “Hello, I’m John Watson and this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes. We were just on our way back to London and wanted to view your charming museum. Sherlock is quite an expert at cold-case forensics and your burials are about as cold as they come, aren’t they?” John was aware he was perilously close to babbling, but it seemed wise to err on the side of fawning if Sherlock was to make any progress in scratching this itch.

 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Lucy Webb, the director here.” She turned to Sherlock. “Are you the detective, the one that solved the murder in the theater and the one about the art student? I read your blog! I didn’t recognize you without the hat.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and huffed out a sigh. “I believe you mean John’s blog,” he said with a grimace.

 

“Oh,” said Lucy, turning back to John, “you’re the blogger then. Well it is quite interesting. Are you a detective as well?”

 

“John is a medical doctor who assists me when his schedule allows.”

 

_John is my assistant who practices medicine when my schedule allows…_ translated John. Still, that was a nice touch, unusually nice, in fact. Must still be apologizing for the sugar then…

 

“Well, pleased to meet you both. Welcome to Belstone and all that. So you want to see our murder victims then? We have had other forensic experts here, of course, but I’d love to have your opinion.”

 

_And there we go_ , thought John, watching the director take Sherlock’s elbow as she led him to the first body, batting her eyelashes and standing just a shade too close. His friend would gladly tolerate the flirting and return it for just as long as he was interested in the conversation. John thought he might have as much as an hour before he was needed in his role as social crash helmet again.

 

John followed them to the case holding the first set of remains. It is the skeleton of a robust adult male. John quickly picked out a pre-mortem, well-healed tibial fracture and a much more questionable pair of mirror image slices at the top and bottom edges of the seventh and eighth ribs on the left side. Having seen all he needed, he moved away to allow Sherlock freer access to the case.

 

Most of the other cases held artifacts recovered from the graves and their environs. Knowing it will make the train ride home pass smoothly if he is an informed audience for the deductive genius, he moved around the room, studying a variety of wall charts. After absorbing the general timeline and some statistics about life expectancies and common causes of death in first millennia Britain, he turned to check Sherlock’s progress.

 

The director and the detective stand pressed shoulder to shoulder, both of them with their noses nearly leaving prints on the glass of the case at the back of the hall. A large and beautifully lettered sign identified this as the case of the Dartmoor Princess. John made a small smile, thinking it a perfect blog title. Sherlock’s voice rose in both volume and pitch and John knew it was time to adjust the director’s expectations, just a bit.

 

              As John strolled over, he heard the director saying, “Freeze drying is the most certain preservation method, of course, but the Princess was so lovely when she was discovered there was a unanimous sense among the staff that we should try to preserve her as she was first seen. It’s a bit gruesome, of course, and it took a lot of lanolin and cod liver oil, but the results were spectacular.”               Peering over her shoulder, John had to agree. He looked into the face of a girl on the cusp of womanhood and she reminded him for all the world of a very young Vivian Leigh, if Vivian Leigh had been covered in cordovan shoe polish, buffed to a high gloss and furnished with gills. She rested on her back, her hands folded neatly beneath her ribcage. She could be asleep, were it not for the perfect slice beneath her right ear, immediately above and through the common carotid artery. A mirror on the far side of the case showed an identical incision on the left side of her throat. She would have bled out in minutes.

 

“Professional opinion, doctor?” asks a baritone voice in his right ear.

 

John looked at the girl’s smooth hands and neat dress, takes in the unbitten lips and relaxed appearance before giving an opinion. “Looks like a humane execution, if you believe in such a thing. No sign of struggle or defensive wounds, no evidence of distress immediately before death. I’d say she was heavily drugged before someone made those expert incisions with a very sharp blade. There would have been at least 3 liters of blood lost before her heart stopped, so I would guess she was cleaned up and redressed post-mortem.”

 

“Yes, that’s a good summary,” responded Dr. Webb. “We think she was drugged and carried to the top of the tor, where she was held upright in a deep grave for the execution. Extensive traces of blood on her torso indicate she was nude during the execution and the blood allowed to drain into the soil. She was cleaned and dressed, as you said, and the grave furnished with several large, clean fleeces and a fine linen sheet, as if she were being put to bed. This dress is a facsimile, but we think the original gown was a white wool twill with a white linen under-tunic, before the tannins stained everything. There was a cloak and some other clothing as well. Rather a classic virgin sacrifice, I’m afraid.”

 

“Charming,” observed Sherlock, drily, “but a bit dull, really. At least the skeleton fellow lived a bit rough and put up a fight.”

 

“Well,” said Dr. Webb, in what John thought an absurdly sultry voice for a museum director, “If it’s a gorier ending you’re looking for, you should come in the back and see our latest find.”

 


	3. A Case of Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long walk with a good friend… What could go wrong?

Dr. Webb led them back through the exhibit halls to a set of double doors with a sign that declared, “Staff only. No General Admittance, please.”   They turned down a wide hall with sterile white walls and regular doors opening to small offices and workrooms.  At the end of the hall, stood another set of heavy double doors fixed with windows and gasketing, reminiscent of the doors to operating rooms.  
  
    Inside, the room smelt of filtered air and the industrial ventilation fans were loud enough to force the director to raise her voice.  As she approached a lab table, she said, “We found her earlier this month.  We haven’t made a press release yet as we’re hoping to get the lion’s share of the excavation complete first.  This one is far more typical of bog burials, as you can see.”  With that, she pulled back a heavy plastic tarp followed by a light sheet that smelled heavily of phenol.  
  
    Other than gender and the sable color of the skin, the body could not have been more different.  Sherlock took in the body’s condition and glanced at John.  The thin pressed lips and furrowed brow, the anger that rose quickly in the expressive eyes told the detective John’s conclusions matched his own.  To give the doctor a moment, Sherlock began reeling off his observations.  
  
    “Female, also peri-menarche, numerous contusions and lacerations.  Buried with less ceremony, based on the obvious abrasions, possibly buried nude.  Decorative body scarifications made pre-mortem but no sign of jewelry.  Not in… repose at the time of death, apparently.”  
  
    At his side, John gave a bitter chuff of laughter.  “Not in repose…”  
  
    The body before them rested on its side and was contorted in rictus.  The flexor carpi on the left forearm had been flayed to the bone and there were numerous other, more superficial cuts on both arms and shoulders.  The wrists and ankles were crossed and much of the skin at both sites was missing.  There was a deep, ragged wound to the abdomen and, had she survived the lacerations, John supposed infection would have killed her in a few days, but one glance at her face showed that was not the case.  The left side of her skull was conspicuously dented and John sincerely hoped she was insensible when she died, but it seemed unlikely.  
  
    “They buried her alive.  They stabbed her repeatedly, bound her hand and foot, threw her in a trench and buried her alive,” John stated, his voice flat and tense.  
  
    ‘Yes, so it seems,” responded Dr. Webb.  “Indentations on the skin indicate she may have been clothed in rough linen or else placed in a linen sack prior to burial.  There was a granite slab on top of her.  We think that’s what dented the skull.  It shifted unevenly over time and erosion around it revealed the grave to an intern doing thesis work on the Princess’s interment.”  
  
    “The graves are close together then?” Sherlock queried.  
  
    “Yes, quite close in distance, less than two kilometers between them.  They were close in time as well, we think.  The Princess’s grave was near the summit of  Steeperton Tor.  It’s not one of the highest tors, but it’s fairly isolated and quite a tough walk. The Taw Marsh is to the north and can be near impassable in some seasons.  The Taw itself flows through the Steeperton Gorge to the northwest.  It was in a small bog that gives rise to a tributary that we found this wee thing.”  
  
    “Why was your intern searching in that terrain?”  
  
    “There’s a stone circle near Little Hound Tor, about two kilometers to the northeast.  I think he was hoping for some kind of symmetry pattern, trying to get more clues as to the significance of the burial near the summit.  He was camping and hiking along the western side.  He was supposed to be there for two weeks, but he found this grave on the first full day he was there.  Lucky, that, because he found the experience quite unnerving, said he wouldn’t stay a second night.”  
  
    “Did the famous Demon Hound chase him from his tent?” asked Sherlock with a sneer and a glance at John.  
  
    “Not at all.  He was camping close to the river and said he heard voices.  First a yell from the top of the tor, then later some shrieks and wailing close to his tent.  He got up to look around and saw some flickering light.  He thought it might be another camper in trouble and headed in that direction.  As he was getting close, he tripped and rolled downhill into the grave slab. He felt the colder air from the chamber beneath and decided to come back in the morning.”  
  
    “And all the wailing and goings on?”  
  
    “Stopped the minute he fell against the gravesite, according to him.”  
  
    “No sign of his campers in the morning, I assume.”  
  
    “Nothing.  Shook him up a bit, but he got over it when he realized what he’d found.”  The director tilted her head coquettishly, smiling up at the pale almond eyes of the detective.  “So, Mr. Holmes, are you intrigued?  Would you like to take a look at the scene of a cold case almost three thousand years old?”  
  
    “As it happens, Dr. Watson and I have an hour or two to spare right now.”  
  
    “Oh, we couldn’t go now.  The students will have closed down the dig site for the day by now.  We dig in the morning, record and classify in the afternoon, and I need to stay and supervise.  There would be no one there to show you around, I’m afraid.  How about tomorrow?  Or you could come back anytime,” she offered with a confident smile, stepping ever so slightly closer to Holmes.  
  
    “Unfortunately, I have some rather urgent work in London.  We’ll need to be on our way, I’m afraid.  It’s been terribly informative.  Thanks so very much…” John knows that artificially social tone of voice and it never bodes well, but before he can say a word of objection or goodbye, he is being hustled out of the laboratory, through the entrance and into the Land Rover.  
      
    “Alright,” said the doctor, “What’s going on?  You always have a plan when you start physically pushing me around like that.”  
  
    “Buckle your ridiculous seat belt.  You might actually derive some benefit from it in a few kilometers.”  
  
    “Off road, you’re taking us off road, aren’t you?  Sherlock?  Sherlock, answer me or stop this car!”  
  
    “You heard her, John.  Her little group of Rover Scouts has packed up and the site will be free of annoying, myopic academics.  We can take a look for ourselves without any simpering scientists around.”  
  
    “I also heard her say the sites are on an isolated tor and a rough walk, with a marsh to the north.”  
  
    “The marsh is inconvenient. The excavation team is using an old military road that comes in to the new site from the north, around the marsh.  It’s a longer route and it’s otherwise unused.  We’d be certain to pass them and be noticed.  I think we can take a more anonymous approach from the east.  There are some car parks with hiking trails all along the roads leading from Throwleigh.  Less than an hour to the car park and another hour hiking to the first site.  It’s half an hour downhill to the second site.  It’s just half one; we have plenty of time.”  
  
    “And how, precisely, are we to find these sites?”  
  
    With a smirk, Sherlock tossed John his phone, open to his photo album. Swiping through, John saw three high-resolution ordinance maps with trails clearly marked and the excavation sites pinned.  There was also a table of map coordinates.  
  
    “On the wall of the lab?” John asked.  
  
    “Yep-p.  Practically public information begging to be used, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
    Which was how John found himself standing in the late afternoon sun at the kiosk identifying the grave of the Dartmoor Princess, looking at pictures of the original excavation twenty years ago and text that summarized the museum exhibits he’d seen earlier.  It had taken a bit longer than Sherlock’s estimate to get here (I assumed you could keep up, John…) and the shadows were already getting long.  
  
    “Nothing here to see at all,” scoffed Sherlock.  “Might as well be some sanitized Disneyland display.”  
  
    “I didn’t know you knew about Disneyland,” responded John.  
  
    “Please, people are twenty-two percent more likely to commit crimes of fraud when contemplating an expensive vacation.  Disneyland is a prime motivator in petty embezzlements and thefts.”  
  
    “Huh, and I thought it was all about condominiums in the City and nice cars.”  
  
    “People who can afford condominia and Jaguars engage in fraud and larceny on a much larger scale, John.  It’s far more rare.”  
  
    “You are the only person I know who uses the word  ‘condominia’ with sincerity,” John said, smiling fondly.  
  
    “What does that even mean?” asked Sherlock.  
  
    “Never mind.  Are we going back to London now?”  
  
    “Why would we go back to London now?”  
  
    “Sherlock, it’s past four.  If we leave now, it will still be light when we get to the car.”  
  
    “But everything of interest will be at the second site.  We have more than two hours of daylight left.  We can walk to the new site, look around and be back here in less than two hours.  We have fresh torches to navigate back to the Rover.  Even in the dark it will be no more than two hours.  We’ll still make the last train from Exeter with time to spare.”  
  
    “And walking the moors in the dark still seems wise to you?”  
  
    Sherlock blinked twice and took a deep breath.  John could see the gears turning at high speed. “A good walk with a good friend to an interesting objective seems wise to me.”  
  
    It was blatant manipulation.  John knew it, and yet, and yet…  He loved Sherlock like this, hot on the trail, keen to learn something new.  Teasing John as he did no one else.  Wind in his hair, pink in his cheeks.  He loved Sherlock like this.  Oh fuck, he loved Sherlock like this.  
  
    John turned away, walking to the west.  The canopies covering the dig site were visible from here, just a bit less than two clicks away.  They couldn’t get lost and Sherlock looked so eager, so happy in a way that had been so rare in the last few weeks.  He turned back.  
  
    “Alright, but here’s the deal.  Sunset is around eighteen hundred.  We turn back at seventeen hundred, no matter what you’ve seen or what you haven’t.  No arguments, no wheedling.  Deal?”  
  
    “Done,” said the detective and spun on his heel.      
  
    Sherlock led the way, nimbly stepping down the steep slope as if he were picking his way through a crowd on Queen Street.  John hustled to follow, keeping one eye on the path ahead and the other on where he was placing his own feet.  After a half hour, they descended more than 100 meters; they were most of the way down the slope, above the Steeperton Gorge and very near the excavation. John was feeling mild envy about the long legs that managed the ledges so easily when heard a sharp intake of breath and looked up in time to see Sherlock throw his arms up as if to catch his balance.  As he watched, the cubical boulder beneath his friend’s feet rotated and Sherlock dropped out of sight.    
  
    The sun was nearing the western hilltops and the light was dimming, but John didn’t notice as he moved rapidly, crouching to keep his center of gravity low.  He looked over the ledge where his friend stood seconds ago and saw Sherlock lying still, nearly twenty feet below.  John grabbed the edge, swung over and lowered himself to a small shelf, registering a few stands of sable curls caught on the rough surface.  With deepening urgency, he bent and lowered himself once more, trying to absorb the impact of his landing by bending his knees into a squat.  He straightened immediately and scrambled down the remaining slope to Sherlock’s side.  
  
    The detective had come to rest on his stomach and his face was hidden.  It took all of John’s self control to resist gathering the man into his arms, but he took a deep breath, pushed it out and went into A&E mode.  Kneeling at the tall man’s side, John checked and found a pulse and then felt an intake of breath. Starting at the crown of the skull, he ran his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp. There were no depressions in the skull, but the hair above the right temple was already matted with blood and John’s fingertips told him there was a nasty abrasion on that cheekbone.  John had just rested his hands on Sherlock’s neck when he felt the man stir.  
  
    “Lie still,” John said firmly.  “Lie absolutely still while I do a spinal check.  I’ll tell you what I find as I work.  Understand?”  He felt rather than heard a huff of agreement.  “Okay, cervical vertebrae seem fine, which is great news.  I’m going to work my way down to your coccyx, then I’m going to check your hips and shoulders.  If that all checks out, I’ll roll you onto your back and we can do limb and concussion checks.”   John kept up a running commentary, feeling more relieved by the moment, as no evidence of spinal or pelvis damage emerges.  There will be a hell of a bruise on the right shoulder, but nothing worse.  Describing what comes next,  he straightens Sherlock’s limbs, then reaches across and takes a firm grip on that blessedly heavy coat, rolling the taller man downhill, almost into his lap.  
  
    Sherlock moaned a bit with the motion. His face filthy and streaked with blood but with both eyes furious and wide open he gritted out,  “May I move now, Doctor?”  
  
    “Just stay still a few more minutes while I…”  
  
    “There’s nothing wrong,” growled the detective, pushing himself up on his elbows and immediately grimacing.    
      
    “Right, got it, give me your wrists anyway, right one first.”  
  
    Both arms checked out fine and the gloves had protected those spidery hands from the worst of the fall, but as John worked his way down Sherlock’s right leg, there was an obvious problem.  The man stiffened and gasped as soon as John lifted his leg and the knee was a little puffy, but Sherlock’s ankle had already swollen above the top of his beautiful Italian leather shoe.  John immediately saw that if the shoe came off, it wouldn’t go back on again, so he settled for loosening the lace and then using Sherlock’s scarf to hold the shoe in place and stabilize the ankle a bit.  
  
    “You’re not walking anywhere on that,” John pronounced.  The doctor scanned the darkening sky and the landscape that suddenly seemed much more threatening.  “Well, you’re not walking far, at least.”


	4. The Case of the Interrupted Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look! A new chapter!!
> 
> Sherlock is not the only restless spirit on the moors...

“I appreciate your concern, John, but I am certain you are exaggerating the situation.  If you would be so kind as to help me up, I’m sure I can manage.”  
  
    “Yeah, because you’re the one who has the experience with trauma injuries and reconstructive surgeries.”  
  
    “Just help me up and I can demonstrate…”  
  
    “I am not helping you to stand until we agree on a plan.  I checked my mobile signal at the top of the tor and had nothing, so we’re basically on our own right here.  I’m willing to let you try a few steps, because we have to get you somewhere off this slope, but if I’m right, you won’t want to walk far once you put some weight on that ankle.  That gives us two choices once we find some cover; either I leave you, go back to the Rover and go to get some help or we stay together and wait for the archeological team to come in the morning.  Then you can work your magic charisma on a member of the team so they give us some ice and drive us to an A&E.”  
  
    “Both of those plans are absurd, but it matters not a whit since we won’t need them once you stop faffing about and Help.  Me.  Up!”  
  
    “My plans are crap.  Of course they are.  Because I was the one who decided hiking across the moors in bespoke hard soled shoes in the late afternoon was a good idea.  Fine.  We’ll get you on your feet and you can tell me how we’ll apparate to Exeter with the luggage.”  
  
    “You’re talking nonsense yet again.  Give me a hand.”  
  
    John gave his thin-lipped We-are-both-going-to-regret-this look of self-righteousness and stood.  His body language betrayed his actual feelings as he cradled the back of the injured man’s head and neck with his left hand while grabbing Sherlock’s forearm with his right.  “Here we go,” he gritted out.  
  
    John hauled on Sherlock’s arm and took as much weight as he dared when the detective gasped and staggered against him.  They wobbled together on the slope as Sherlock struggled to balance on one foot, his vision whiting out from pain.  John wrapped one arm around his friend’s waist as he maintained his grip on that fragile, beloved skull with the other.  After several tense moments, they were both upright and stable.  
  
    “Well,” said the doctor, “Which of my crap plans do you prefer now?”  
  
    Sherlock managed to even out his breathing before he replied.  “Let’s get down to the dig site.  I’ll think about it while we walk.”

  
    “Think about staying upright and keeping your weight off that ankle.  My bet is on an avulsion fracture, like a dancer’s fracture, so if we can avoid more soft tissue damage; we’re looking at a full recovery without surgery.  Allright?”  
  
    There was silence above him, so John glanced up to see his friend gazing fondly down.  “Do you know you slip into that doctor’s “we” automatically?  Do you do that with all your patients?”  
  
    John thought “ _No, almost never, just with you…”_ but there was no point in revealing that, so he just shrugged and said “Put as much weight on me as possible and take it slow.  Just think of me as a crutch, allright?”  
  
     _“If only you knew…”_ thought Sherlock, but all he said was, “Yes, doctor,” and they started down the remaining slope.  
  
    It was a half hour of slow work to cover the few hundred meters to the two canopies of the dig.  The site had been a bog before the Taw River had shifted course downstream.  The soil here was deeper and damper than the thin scrabble above.  A larger canopy covered the gravesite.   The ground beneath it was scattered with plastic markers attached to small stakes.  Trowels and sifting boxes were carefully piled in one corner.  The smaller canopy was positioned to use a small ledge as a partial wall and was somewhat protected from the persistent wind.  It housed a miscellany of support materials:  extra tarps, brushes and sponges, a case of bottled water, a beaten up picnic cooler and, to John’s satisfaction, a well stocked first aid kit.  John left his patient leaning on the ledge and went to rummage among the supplies.  
  
Sherlock watched his friend do an efficient inventory.  John was in his wee, fierce, grumpy persona, the gnome-like one he assumed when he was simultaneously annoyed with Sherlock for being in some form of trouble and pleased with himself for being useful.  This was different from John in his cheerful, mischievous, elfin form, when John hummed with pleasure of a fresh problem, or relaxed hobbit John, stretching his feet toward the fire at the end of a long day.  Sherlock had given up months ago on worrying why he now maintained a catalog of small, imaginary fey creatures that he had previously deleted at the age of eight.  John was unique in Sherlock’s experience; there was no point in comparing him to any normal human beings.  
  
John returned to his side with two tarps and some water.  He spread one tarp at the base of the ledge and helped the detective settle with his back to the rock outcrop.  He rolled the second tarp to elevate the injured leg and then shoved a bottle of water in Sherlock’s hand.  “Drink this,” he barked and went back to the supply pile.  Moments later he came back with a handful of protein bars, an elastic bandage and some partially thawed ice packs.  
  
“Eat this,” he said, pushing the nutrient bar at his friend while staring at the swollen ankle.

  
“Not hungry.  Don’t like these.”  
  
“Don’t care.  Drink the water and eat the bloody bar or I’ll call your brother to send a bloody helicopter.”  
  
“You wouldn’t.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
“You’re trying to distract me.  What are you planning on doing?”  
  
“I’m going to take off your thousand quid shoe, palpate your foot and then surround it with some of these ice packs and hold the lot in place with this bandage.  With the shoe off, I’ll have a better idea of how bad the damage is.  It’s going to hurt like a bastard for a bit.”  
  
“They are not thousand quid shoes;  they are seven hundred and ninety-five quid a pair.  That’s less than four hundred pounds per shoe.”  
  
“Yes, and with the difference we could buy two or three pair for me.  The point is that you won’t be walking on it for several hours, at least, and we do need to make a decision about whether I go for help immediately or stay with you.”  
  
“Yes, obvious, now just do it, John.”  
  
Without another word, the doctor unlaced the smooth leather and slipped the shoe from the swollen foot.  He felt his patient tense as the increased blood flow stimulated the bruised nerves and quickly ran his fingers along the ankle and arch, probing as little as possible. He briefly checked range of motion, feeling for anything moving out of place.  Then he bound three cold packs around the foot before gently placing it back on the rolled tarp.  
  
By the time he was finished, he could feel minute shivers in the large muscles of his friend’s leg.  A glance at Sherlock’s white face told him all he needed to know.  
  
“Right.  I can’t rule out a concussion, especially as you lost consciousness for a bit.  Between the pain and the ice packs, you’re already shivering.  It will probably stay above freezing tonight, but it won’t be much above 3 or 4 degrees.  Looks like I’m staying here.  There’s one more tarp.   If I tuck it around both of us, we should stay warm enough to avoid hypothermia.”  
  
“John, I’m sure I would be fine.  There’s no need to cosset me.”  
  
“It’s nearly dark, Sherlock.  I’d need to take my time getting back to the Rover lest both of us end up injured and separated to boot.  By the time I navigate back to civilization, find some help and bring someone back via that route around the marsh, we’d be talking about a minimum of five hours.  I’d rather wait here with you, unless you object to the company.”  
  
“The company is never objectionable,” said Sherlock, “Even when it’s profoundly grumpy.  You’ll be just as cold, though, and you hate being cold.”  
  
“Yeah, well you’ll owe me a full English back in London in the morning, but I’ve managed worse.  Worse company too, for that matter.  Let me get that third tarp.  They left a camping stove here and some tea.  At least I can make a cuppa.”  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed acceptance, privately relieved not to be left alone with nothing to think about but his own aches, pains and foolishness.  He leaned back against the rock as John puttered about.  The small gas stove gave off a pleasant roar seconds later, a tin or two opened and shut, some crockery rattled about and a few minutes later John was pushing a beat up commuter mug into his hands.  
  
“Finish that protein bar and a couple of biscuits with that tea and I’ll give you some naproxen when you’re done.”  
  
“What kind of biscuits?”  
  
“A kind you like.  They’ve got quite a selection.  Who knew archeologists had such sweet tooths… sweet teeth?  Whatever, lucky for you.”  
  
“Are there Jaffa Cakes?”  
  
“Orange and blackcurrant, so…”  
  
“I want blackcurrant!”  
  
“Yeah, like I didn’t know that.  Protein bar first,” said the doctor, trying for at least a modicum of nutritional sobriety in adverse conditions.  
  
Two cups of tea and a half dozen biscuits later, the sun had long since set and the last light was fading from the sky.  John had settled shoulder to shoulder with his patient, tucking the last tarp neatly around both of them before shoving his ungloved hands firmly in his armpits.  They had nearly eleven hours until dawn and the dig site was in the shadow of the tor.  It would be a long, cold morning before help would arrive.  John worried not at all that Sherlock would charm them out of any trouble, provided he was warm enough to be lucid by then.  Subconsciously, he snuggled in a bit tighter.  
  
“This is not an ideal arrangement,” rumbled Sherlock, at the moment John was thinking roughly the same thought.  
  
“Napping in a frost pocket on the Moors before it’s even Spring, you mean?  Huh, and here I was thinking it was paradise,” responded John, with a bit of snark.  
  
“I was referring to the seating arrangement and your worry about the temperature,” responded the detective.  “You’re already cold”  
  
“Do you have a better idea, genius?”  
  
“Yes, actually.  Take your jacket off.”  
  
“And that will make me warmer how?”  
  
“Just do it and let me show you.”  
  
With a grimace, John sat up and slipped off his jacket, shivering as the cold air draining off the tor pooled against his back.    
  
Sherlock snatched at the coat, “Here, give it to me.  Just do it, John!”  As soon as the doctor complied, the detective spread his legs apart and patted the ground in front of him.  “Now sit here.”  
  
“In your lap?  You want me to sit in your lap!”  
  
“I want you to lean up against me and share some body heat.  Isn’t that what a doctor would recommend?  I’ll pull your jacket around you, my coat around the sides and the tarp over us?  Have you got a better idea?”  
  
John didn’t, and the fact was, if they had been two platoon mates he would have suggested the same thing, but things had felt increasingly…  complicated with Sherlock for weeks now, ever since the death of The Woman.  John didn’t entirely trust himself getting literally wrapped up in Sherlock.  On the other hand, reversing their positions seemed even more problematical.  
  
“Just do it, John,” and the taller man used the leverage of his longer arms to pull the doctor over his good leg and into his chest.  Jacket, Belstaff and tarp were all tucked in place and John found himself in a somewhat boney but quite warm cocoon.  
  
“Sherlock, I’m not sure…”  
  
“Oh, stop worrying, John.  There’s nobody here to see and I certainly don’t plan on sharing the story of this experience with anyone once we get out of here.  Just, take a nap or something.”  
  
“And what are you going to do?”  
  
“What I do best, I’ll think.  Perhaps I’ll clean my mind palace of debris.”  
  
“Try to make a mind palace note on the wisdom of keeping overland hikes restricted to daylight hours, while you’re at it.”  
  
“Oh, go to sleep…”  
  
And thinking about the next morning, John decided that really was his best option.  His backbone planted against the detective’s sternum, he tucked in his chin and quickly nodded off.  
  
                         ………………………………......................................................................  
  
“John, John, John, wake up.  John, wake up!”  
  
The doctor woke from a sound sleep and his first thought was that he was a bit stiff.  His second thought was that he had shifted in his sleep and was now firmly curled up in Sherlock’s lap, his cheek pillowed on Sherlock’s pectoral and his hands gripping the silk lining of a merino wool suit jacket. He started mumbling as he blinked himself awake, “Sorry, sorry…”  
  
“Hush, John!  Someone is on the tor and they’re moving in our direction.”  
  
John twisted around to look up the tor.  The full moon had risen high above the peak, casting long shadows down the hillside.  Near the crest, a human in white was moving nimbly down and across the slope, seeming to follow a path he and Sherlock had not seen.  Across the distance, John felt the motion was made with a sense of urgency.  Loose clothing floated about the figure and pale arms reached out for balance as the treacherous ledges were quickly navigated.  In moments, John could make out a slender young woman with dark hair dressed in a white gown.  John mentally traced her path backward and knew she had come from the tomb site. Gooseflesh rose along his back and arms.  
  
“Sherlock, what do you see?”  
  
“I see either an elaborate hoax or an inexplicable supernatural event.  I’m betting on the former but rather hoping for the latter.  This is better than the hound, John!”  
  
“Why would anyone perpetrate a hoax like this in the middle of nowhere, with no audience?  No one else knows we’re here.”  
  
“Exactly.  I don’t think she’s seen us yet so shut up and let’s see what she does.”  
  
The men watched in silence as the girl swiftly closed the distance and approached the open gravesite that lay between their shelter and the path up the tor.  The moon was bright enough to illuminate her face to their dark-adapted eyes.  The girl was a ringer for the well-preserved corpse they had seen earlier.  
  
“Jesus Christ!” whispered John.  
  
“Yes, well that is a precedent, I suppose.”  
  
As she reached flatter ground, the girl had broken into a run, headed straight for the grave, but when she was less than 30 meters away, she slammed to a stop so quickly she stumbled to her knees.  Scrambling up, she tried to press forward to no avail.  It was as if an invisible wall separated her from her goal.  As John watched, she began to call.  The quiet of the valley was broken by the frantic, unintelligible sound.  
  
“Sherlock…”  
  
“Hush, listen.”  
  
The keening from the dark haired girl was wavering, a plaintive wail that undulated as she began to move away from them, pressing her whole body against a surface they could not see.  She was trying to find a way into the old wetland that held the grave, crying aloud as she went, but as John listened, he heard another sound, closer by.  His flesh began to crawl as he recognized the scrabbling sound of fingers on dirt, coming from the grave itself.  He watched in horror as a thin, bruised and wounded arm appeared at the edge of the hole.  Grey fingers dug into the bog grasses, grabbing for purchase and a filthy, matted blonde head slowly emerged. 


	5. A Case of a Long Delayed Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead are walking, and running, and crying. Will our heroes help?

John was on his feet and in motion well before his brain caught up.  He had closed half the distance to the grave before Sherlock’s voice broke into his consciousness.  
  
“John, stop!  John Watson!  Captain Watson, stop immediately!”  
  
John turned in place to see that his friend had used the stone ledge to haul himself to his feet.  Sherlock’s face was a mask of pain and desperate terror, a mirror of the fear he had shown two days before at Grimpen Hollow.  “John, you can do nothing to help her.  She’s long beyond help.”  
  
John looked back and forth between the spectre he saw of a badly beaten and bleeding girl and his best friend.  Sherlock could see him trembling with anxiety and frustration.  
  
“John, listen to me.  We don’t know what’s happening.  We don’t know what they are, what they need or want.  Just wait with me.  Just observe with me a few minutes.  Please, John.”  
  
With a visible shudder, John walked back to his friend’s side.  “Get off that ankle, you idiot.  I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I’ll wait with you if you get off your ankle.”  
  
Together, they watched the drama playing out on the moor.  The dark haired girl, the Princess of the museum display, was desperately working her way around a perimeter of the wetland, pressing forward on an invisible wall but unable to get any closer.  The disheveled and anguished blonde stood in the pit of her grave, seemingly unable to escape it but persisting in her efforts with a heart-breaking valor.  The eerie calls that rang out between the two described a tragedy without words.  
  
“Is this what he heard?  Dr. Webb’s graduate student?  Their calling to each other?” John turned to the detective, “How could he turn away from this?  Why didn’t he do something?”  
  
“What do you think can be done, John?”  
  
“They’re trying to reach each other.  There must be a way to help them!”   
  
“Setting aside the possibility that this is some joint hallucination or that I am engaged in an extended and compelling dream, and assuming for the moment that we are experiencing some form of reality, what is it you think we should do?”  
  
“You’re the genius here, look at them!  They’re frightened and in pain and it has to do with being separated.  What’s keeping them apart?  If this has happened before, when the graduate student was here, why haven’t they re-united by now?  Webb said it’s been nearly three thousand years.”  
  
“John, you do realize you are talking about ghosts exhibiting psychological distress as if they were real people?”  
  
“I don’t care if they’re ghosts or souls or actors or hallucinations; I want it to stop.  I don’t want to see and hear two scared girls being…  whatever they are.  I want it to stop, Sherlock!  What’s keeping them apart?  Solve the bloody puzzle; that’s what you do.”  
  
The doctor’s face furrowed and his shoulders hunched and clenched as his own distress mirrored that of the ghostly visions beyond them.  Sherlock was well aware that John’s wariness of emotional involvement masked a deeply empathic nature.  The combination of caring and guardedness had stood him in good stead as a surgeon and soldier, but sabotaged every romantic relationship John began.  Sherlock often wondered how early in life John had learned to build barriers around his own heart and he recognized it was a trait they shared, but the detective had learned to barricade the emotions and opinions of others before they penetrated his own armor.  The doctor absorbed it all, suffering as others suffered, spurred on to end the suffering or expire trying.  It was possibly John’s most self-destructive feature.  
  
Sherlock looked back across the moor, studying the figure in white as she now focused on one section of the perimeter.  She fell to her knees and scrabbled at the grass and peat, but her furious gestures had no effect.   
  
 “There’s something there, or there was.  Something that she can see and we cannot.”  Sherlock shook the melted ice packs from his foot as he said, “Help me over there.”  
  
“You shouldn’t…”  
  
“If you want me to solve this puzzle you must help me find all the pieces, John.  Otherwise we sit back down and watch them until the moon sets.”  
  
The doctor hesitated briefly before saying, “All right then, same drill as before.  Lean on me and keep your weight off that ankle as much as possible.”  
  
They slowly made their way across the uneven ground until the specter Princess was nearly close enough to touch.  Sherlock stared at the bit of turf beneath her fingers as if it were a complex code in a foreign language.  “Look at the plants.  There are clumps of ling and gorse all over the drier soil, but there’s nothing but purple moor grass right here.  The soil is thick all over this area because it used to be bog, but it’s thin right here.  There’s something just beneath the surface, but she can’t reach it.  Help me down.”  
  
Glancing at the girl just a few feet away, John gently lowered his friend down and helped him carefully straighten his damaged leg.  The ghost glanced in their direction, as if there were a sudden breeze or shadow she couldn’t explain, before returning to her task.  
  
“Look John, she’s trying to dig around the edge of something.  Do you have your knife?”  
  
“Yeah, I see it,” said the doctor, drawing a pocketknife from his jacket.  “Do you think she’ll let me…”  
  
“There’s only one way to find out.  I’ll try, if you like.”  
  
“Never mind that.  Just watch her and let me know if I should stop.”  
  
With that the smaller man leaned over and began working the blade of his knife through the turf in a large, rough square.  Intent on the task, he startled when his friend said, “Look at her, John.”  
  
The dark haired princess was sitting back on her heels, watching John intently.  When he hesitated, she made a small gesture of encouragement.  
  
“She sees us,” said John.  
  
“It seems so.  She seems to think you’re helping.”  
  
John set to with more energy then and soon had a square of turf he could pull up like a thick carpet.  He started scooping away the loose soil that remained below and soon exposed a granite slab like the one near the grave, but smaller and covered with angled characters.  
  
The girl in white leaned over and studied the symbols, frowning and biting her lips.  With a trembling hand, she reached out to touch the surface, then jerked back as if bitten.  John turned to his friend with an inquiring look.  
  
“It’s a rune stone and the writing is a curse, one she believes and experiences viscerally.  She can’t touch the stone, but it must be moved to break the curse.”  
  
“You’re sure?”  
  
“Of course I’m not sure, John!  I’m not a first millennium BCE druid shaman or whoever put this here, but it’s consistent with what we know about the times then and with her behavior.  It’s our best hypothesis at the moment.”  
  
“All right then,” responded the doctor, leaning over and working his fingers into the damp dirt.   “Don’t suppose you have anything useful, like a pry bar, in that greatcoat of yours?”  
  
“If I did, you would have it by now.  Wait, this will help a bit,” said Sherlock, handing over a nearly full water bottle.  
  
Using the water and his fingers, John loosened the stone and the squatted to get a better angle.  The tendons stood out in his neck as he heaved on the stone and then the detective was at his side, pulling as well.  It came free and they both fell to their backs, catching their breath.  
  
When they looked back at the princess, she was gazing into the hole with a grim look.  Sherlock rolled to his side and peered in with a thoughtful expression.  
  
John joined him and saw…   
  
“A rope?  A knotted rope?  That’s what’s keeping them apart?”  
  
“It’s an elaborate Celtic plait, an endless knot symbolizing infinity.  Furthermore, rope was a valuable, handcrafted necessity in their world.  It’s use here means keeping them apart was very important to whatever authority placed it there.   It doesn’t matter what it looks like to us, John.  What’s important is what it means to them, and clearly it means a lot.”  
  
“What if I just cut it?”  
  
“That would indicate its power had expired, I think.  Yes, good idea.”  
  
“Obvious,” mumbled John, as he set to once more with his now much duller pocketknife.  At first, he blamed its dullness for his lack of progress and put his back into it.  After a few more seconds with not a strand parted, he sat back.  “Huh, enchanted rope now?”  
  
“Since there is no obvious mineralization, that seems to be the best conclusion at the moment.”  
  
“What now?” asked John.  Before Sherlock could reply, the girl standing above them rustled her clothing.  They looked up as she reached into her sash and withdrew something dark and bright, dropping it into the hole.  
  
It was a knife, glittering in the moonlight, made of obsidian with a handle of horn.  
  
“A prismatic leaf blade, ritual purpose no doubt.  I believe our distressed damsel is making a suggestion.”  
  
    John leaned back into the hole and grasped the horn handle.  It was strangely warm in the cool night air.  He applied it to the endless knot and it parted like candy floss.  The last fiber fell back and the dark haired girl leapt over the hole like a deer, racing to the burial site.  
  
  
    John stood and helped his friend up.  The men turned together and watched as the taller, slender girl reached into the grave.  With tender care, she helped the smaller girl crawl out and pulled her into her lap, rocking her injured friend like a frightened infant.  The sound that reached their ears was remarkably like a lullaby.  
  
    Slowly, gently, long pale fingers carded through the matted hair and smoothed along the bruised and wounded arms.  Tears fell from pale eyes as the princess pressed her lips lightly to the forehead and cheeks of her diminutive companion.    
  
    As the moonlight washed over them, the blonde girl gradually was transformed from a macabre cadaver into a ruddy, handsome, redoubtable teenager.  Bruises were replaced by tribal tattoos.  Muscle and sinew covered the open wounds.  Glossy blonde tresses fell down a strong back.  Finally, the smaller girl caught both of the delicate hands in her own callused palms, kissed the slender fingers and gave her friend a brilliant, crooked grin.  
  
    They stood together and held each other close, the susurration of their speech lost to the gentle breeze.  At last, the taller girl pulled a shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it firmly around her friend. They turned their faces to the moonlight and began to move away.  After a step or two, the taller girl paused and turned.  She looked over her shoulder to where John and Sherlock stood as mute sentinels.  Shyly, she raised her hand in salute and gave a quick, broad smile before turning back to her companion.  
  
    The two girls walked away to the southwest, arm in arm, their figures fading to translucency over a short distance.  When they passed beneath the moon, they winked out, as if they had never been.  
  
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____________________________________________________________________________________________

_A.N. - I hope to post the denouement tomorrow, for the holiday._


	6. A Case of Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Un-nerved by recent experience, our heroes reveal much, but not all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween and thanks to all who commented and kudoed. It's better than Halloween candy, by far!

Sherlock heard his own ragged breathing as he struggled to contain the inexplicable grief welling in his chest.  He felt unmoored and adrift when John spoke.  
  
“Sherlock, what just happened?  What…  Was that real?  Are we still hallucinating from Frankland’s drug?  What just happened?”  
  
The detective looked down at the hole at their feet and the mud on their knees.  “One obvious reality is that we have vandalized an archaeological site and national treasure.  My first suggestion is that we conceal this as soon as possible.”  
  
John looked at the obsidian knife still firmly in his grasp and gave a start.  His hand opened reflexively and the blade dropped into the hole, coming to rest on the parted knot. He knelt and dragged the rune stone over the other evidence and quickly raked handfuls of the damp soil over the symbols.  When the surface was nearly even, he rolled the square of thin turf back in place and tamped it down, lightly.  
  
When he finished, he stood and looked at the spot skeptically, saying, “Well, it wouldn’t fool Sherlock Holmes.  How long do you think we have before they come to arrest us?”  
  
“At their present rate of excavation and exploration, they won’t search at this distance for one point four years.  By that time the turf will have regrown and the peat settled.  I suspect they’ll believe what they find is all part of an obscure Iron Age ritual and we will be safe from prosecution.”  The tall man shifted uncomfortably on his feet.  The adrenaline of the past half hour had faded and he was favoring his damaged ankle again.  
  
“You need to sit down again.  We still have hours before the crew arrives.  Let’s get you back to that outcrop.”  
  
They hobbled over to the stone cubbyhole and John took Sherlock’s weight, carefully lowering him to the ground, smoothing the heavy coat to offer maximum coverage against the cold ground.  He settled against Sherlock’s left side, tucking his hands in his armpits.  
  
“It was better before,” muttered Sherlock.  
  
“It was better before, with me squashing you back against the rock and falling asleep on your chest?”  
  
“That’s what I said.  Don’t make me repeat myself.  It was warmer and more comfortable.  I had a place to rest my chin.”  
  
“Always the innuendo about short friends,” responded John.  
  
“It’s not innuendo if I state it plainly,” observed Sherlock, “now are you moving or not?”  
  
“Alright, make a bit of room then.”  
  
Sherlock spread open his coat and adjusted his long legs so that John could settle back into place, wrapping his coat and arms around the man, pulling him close.  Together they relaxed in the pre-dawn quiet.  A long time had passed before John asked again, “What we saw, was it real?”  
  
“What Henry saw was real, but what he retained and remembered were influenced by his experiences, or lack thereof as a child, and his fear.”  
  
“So, did we see all that,” pressed John, waving his hand toward the gravesite, “because we were conditioned to see that story played out, based on our own experiences?  Or did we see it because our experiences allowed us to understand what we saw?”  
  
“A nice distinction, well parsed.  Unfortunately, we have no way to construct the experiment needed to discern the truth.”  
  
“Alright.  Well, have you deduced their story then?  Based on more objective criteria?”  
  
“There is not much to deduce beyond what was in the museum.”  
  
“Well, let’s have it.  We’ve got a couple more hours and I’m not likely to sleep ‘til I’ve heard it.”  
  
“The director is quite right about the first body…”  
  
“Girl,” interrupted John, “they were just girls, really.”  
  
“Probably adults in their culture, but fine, everything about the first girl screams privileged class, rich cloth, finely tailored and trimmed, tall, healthy, gold jewelry.  She was possibly raised to be a priestess of their cult.  She may or may not have suspected her fate beforehand.  In any case, she was chosen for a sacrifice, based on the artifacts found with her, the gravesite and the near certainty she was drugged before being killed as painlessly as possible.  They would have washed the body and dressed her in those robes.  Very text book.”  
  
“But the second is not text book…”  
  
“No, although perhaps she was meant to be.  The differences in their tattoos indicate they came from different tribes.  Together with her minimal clothing, very small stature and did you notice the mild goiter?...   It’s reasonable to infer she was enslaved as a captive and became a servant to the taller girl when they were both children.  Over time, they became more than mistress and slave.  They became companions, friends, even.  It was probably not condoned by the culture, but may have been accepted for a time if it kept their priestess or princess happy, manageable.”  
  
Sherlock continued, “As the date of execution neared, it seems something changed.  In cases where slaves are interred to be servants in the after life, they are usually in close proximity to their owner.  In this case, the girls were willfully separated.  What did you notice about her condition when she first appeared?”  
  
“Lucy, the director, thought she had been tortured, but that isn’t what I saw.  Cause of death likely would have been the abdominal wound, based on the bloodstains.  Her left wrist was broken, but the knife wounds on her right arm and bruising on her face looked defensive, to me.”  
  
“Conclusion, Doctor?”  
  
“She went down fighting.  She had a knife in her left hand and someone broke her wrist to disarm her, but she put up quite a fight before that.  She was still struggling after she lost the knife, so her assailant turned it on her, stabbed her in the most accessible area and let her bleed until she collapsed.  When she couldn’t fight back they bound her hand and foot.  The grave itself is shallow, hasty, so they put a slab over it later.”    
  
“My thoughts precisely.  Any other guesses?”  
  
John hesitated, pressing his lips together as if nervous about revealing too much.  “I think she wasn’t defending herself, at least not entirely.  I think she objected to the sacrifice.  I think she was trying to prevent the execution of the other girl.”  
  
“Because?”  
  
“They wasted a lot of rope making this circle. She did something extraordinary and unforgivable.  She must have made a hell of an impression on them.  She was ferocious.  She never ran.  There were no wounds on her back at all.  She kept her back to someone or something else and kept her attackers in front of her at all times, but even when she had lost the knife, she never bolted.  She fought until she dropped.”  
  
“Yes.  Sentiment.  The slave tried to protect her mistress, who became her friend, at the price of her own life.  I think your assessment is the most likely scenario, for all the good it did either of them.”  
  
Silence descended as they sat in the fading moonlight but the tension in John’s shoulders and the pattern of his breathing spoke volumes.  
  
“I am not deprecating her sacrifice, John.  That was not my intention.  I was simply observing the futility of it.  They were both doomed from birth, I’m afraid.”  
  
“We’re all doomed from birth, Sherlock.  It’s what you do with the time you have that matters.”  
  
“Spoken like a true soldier.  No!  Wait!” cried Sherlock as John began to pull away.  “That was not a criticism; it was only an observation.  I admit I had no familiarity with such fatalism and…  and courage… valor…  before…  Before we met.  I was slow to appreciate it and slower to tell you so but, John, listen to me.”  
  
Sherlock drew a deep breath before he continued.  “You have defended me since the beginning, and not just against poison pills and plastic explosives.  You defend me against the idiots at the Yard, against my own impulsivity, against the manipulations of Moriarty and Irene…”  
  
“Yeah, that went well, didn’t it?” John observed bitterly.  
  
“You did your best.”  
  
“I didn’t and it wasn’t enough.  I let my own feelings get in the way and I didn’t help defend her.”  
  
“You disliked her.”  
  
“Yeah, but you…  She was important to you and I let you down.”  
  
“You would have defended her for my sake.”  It was more of a question than a statement.  
  
“Yeah, if I had been thinking clearly.  If I had understood how important she was to you.  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you lost her.”  
  
“She isn’t… “  A long pause followed before the detective resumed.  “I love the idea of Irene.  I admired how carefully she constructed her own persona, how strategically she used it as a weapon.”  
  
“Yeah, something you shared, that, the bespoke clothing and the sociopathic manipulation.  But there’s more to you than that “persona”.  Everyone knows there’s more to you than that.”  
  
I don’t know about everyone…  But with Irene the challenge was finding a way to apprehend the clockworks and jam up the elegant mechanism.  I loved the puzzle and the challenge.”  
  
“Like Moriarty.”  
  
“No, she was never the threat he is.  He is too mad to play a game fairly; I know that now.  He is a spider on psychedelic drugs, much more dangerous for his unpredictability. He lurks with paralyzing threats and poisoned chelicerae.  She’s a leopard.  She never hides further than a tree branch and you can admire her from a distance.  But I never wanted to close the distance, John.  She was never a person who really mattered that way.”  
  
John settled back in place, letting Sherlock wrap his arms around his waist and then placing his own arms on top.  John let the unspoken observation hang in the air, but in the end, he couldn’t resist his own curiosity.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson matters and probably Molly.  Greg matters.  Mycroft matters too, although I don’t expect you to admit it.”  
  
“Mycroft has legions of minions to keep him safe.  I never worry about Mycroft.  Lestrade is protected to some extent by his position in the Yard, and he has chosen his profession with his eyes wide open.  Molly is protected by her apparent inconsequential nature and position.  I do depend on you to help protect Mrs. Hudson.  That’s true.”  
  
“Good.  That’s the short list, then.”  
  
“I’m not going to state the obvious, John.”  
  
“It’s obviously not obvious to me.  Idiot, remember?”  
  
John felt the arms at his waist tighten. It was silent for a long moment and then Sherlock’s breath whispered against his ear.  “You asked why we saw them tonight.  They were…  devoted to each other.  I think perhaps you and I, together…  I think we were…  predisposed to see them.”  
  
John was silent, overwhelmed, but he nodded and hummed, at a loss for words.  His friend continued, “I said once I’d be lost without you.  It is more accurate to say I was lost before you.  I don’t want to go back to being alone, to living without your friendship.  You must know I would do anything to keep… our friendship safe, John.”  
  
There were entire novels that could be inferred from that short confession.  John leaned a little harder into his friend and felt the ghost of a cheekbone pressed against his hair.  Soundlessly, he took one long fingered hand from his waist and wrapped both of his smaller hands around it.  He hesitated only a moment and then brushed his lips briefly against the large knuckles.  Suddenly, he was dizzy with the strength of emotion that flooded him and he replaced the hand at his waist.  “It’s mutual, you know,” he murmured.   “I was lost before.  I was nearly lost altogether, permanently, before that day we met.”  
  
Sherlock shivered in his great coat and then sat back against the stone, pulling John with him.  “I don’t know what’s waiting in London.  It’s going to get much more dangerous.”  
  
“As long as we face it together, Sherlock.  Just don’t delete that and go haring off; it’s all I’m asking.  We need to face things together.  All right?”  
  
  
“The sky is getting lighter.  Someone will be here soon,” answered Sherlock, staring toward London to the east.  


**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!


End file.
